Muddled
by SkyKissed
Summary: There's a beauty to her agony. Perhaps not in the pain itself, Red will never delight in that where she is concerned, but in her attempts to alleviate the self induced hurt. And that she is so willing to turn to him for her answers.


**A/N:** Random scene set sometime in the future. Really just wanted to try and get a handle on Red and Elizabeth. This_ could_ be a ship fic. If you squint. A lot. Mostly just dialogue to get a feel for them/ indulge in some quasi comfort fic.

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**MUDDLED**

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The name Elizabeth Keen is positively everywhere that night. The shrill radio personalities are calling it, pictures of her face are plastered gaudily up on television screens. It's an impressive if altogether overblown display, lauding the FBI's newest star agent. They take a rare pleasure in setting her name out in lights.

It brings a satisfied smirk to Red's lips, listening to each of the sanitized reports of the situation. His name is notably omitted from each telling, a deal he is altogether satisfied with. There's more pleasure in hearing her praises sung, inelegant as it is. He considers calling to praise her overnight fame but refrains.

It seems only fair, after all. So typically it is she who comes to him after these little ordeals. He hasn't so much as received a word from her. He nearly writes the evening off as a lost cause until he steps out of the elevator into the familiar hallway. The door to his suite is left open. Not glaringly so, just a hint, the door not clicked entirely shut. A sign, more than anything else. The man shakes his head, pushing into the room without a second thought. There's no dread, no hesitation, only an itching sensation he associates with annoyance. He closes the door behind him, this time latching it properly. By the time he turns, he's already speaking.

"You don't call and now we've transcended knocking," Red purses his lips, staring down his nose at the young woman currently settled on the far side of his couch, "I suppose it's beside the point asking if they taunt you any manners at Quantico?"

"It was on the agenda," she tips her head, giving him a quick once over before relaxing again. The corners of her lips barely turn up as she speaks, the lie tripping too easily from her tongue, "I made it a habit to show up late."

"Glibness does not suit you, Lizzie." She hums in agreement but otherwise makes no attempt to move, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. The tip of her pointer finger drums a steady pattern against the side of her cheek. To the majority of the world (the uninformed or the blind) he would suppose it presents as a nervous tick, some sort of omen of ill events on the horizon. He knows better. It is the opposite, in fact. There is a smoothness and a steadiness to the movement now that is lacking when she is under stress. This is nothing more than an outlet for that residual energy. Her case is closed and everything is tied up ever so neatly at the office, leaving her with this briefest moment of peace.

By morning, he doesn't doubt she'll be sprinting about the city, frenetic as ever. This...interlude, this calm, left all but forgotten.

Setting his coat neatly over the back of one of the recliners, he turns from her, moving towards the sifter on the far side of the room. "Your new found penchant for petty crimes aside, dare I ask the reason for this visit, Agent Keen?"

"Bortsov was apprehended earlier tonight. He surrendered. No incident."

"The man isn't dead? Wonders never cease," he doesn't need to see her scowl to feel it on him, doesn't doubt that her lips are pursing in that particular way of hers. He turns only enough to regard her in profile, smirking as he plucks two glasses from the tray, "It's so unbecoming when you scowl like that, Lizzie. Doesn't do that wonderful complexion any favors. And you cannot deny you are amassing quite an…impressive following."

"I do what's necessary."

She isn't lying but she also isn't offering a reason as to her sudden appearance. Her words are spoken flatly, daring him to say more and understanding that he will not. There's no fun in it. Flat truths are rarely interesting, nothing to play with or twist or manipulate. He's never had much use for blacks or whites. Sometime over their partnership, she's become aware of this. His Lizzie wields her truths like a scalpel now, ending his little games even as he uses lies and half truths to prolong it. An intriguing, if sometimes tedious, prospect. He tilts his head and lets the subject fall away, setting the glasses on the coffee table with a dull clink. The sound echoes on the otherwise silent air.

"Be that as it may, my fair weather friend, you aren't in the habit of showing up at my door when things are going according to plan. I'm having trouble believing you were just craving pleasant company and fine wine."

Keen only continues to tap her finger against her cheek, drumming out that same tired pattern. The girl doesn't have an answer. Not one that makes sense anyway. It's simply become habit for her to flounce (not the correct choice of word but it brings a smile to his lips so he sticks with it) over here in a rage during her cases. Or perhaps call him out for being a monster or some other tired cliche. It's who they are, what they've become. All those trite little nuances in their relationship.

Only now there's nothing to rage over. Everything is calm. The monsters are behind bars and she's here regardless.

He'll consider it a victory later. For now, he simply settles himself on the opposite side of the couch, mirroring her posture with an indulgent look. The space between them is vast but not uncomfortable. "To brood, then. Surely there are better places to indulge your tired introspection than on my couch."

She's gotten better at schooling her features. There's a flash of shock that he's got on but she quickly sweeps it away beneath flawless masks, no longer allowing it to paint itself dumbly across her features. Her tongue flicks out briefly across her lower lip as if her mouth is suddenly dry. His dear protege offers him a sad half smile to accompany her shrug and the simplest of words, "I should be happy."

"To see Bortsov locked away?" he chuckles, reaching for the half empty bottle on the table. The remnants of lasts nights reminiscing, "You should be over the moon. Putting that man away is just another distinguished note on that already impressive resume of yours."

"Then why does it feel like I could have done more?"

There's a beauty to her agony. Perhaps not in the pain itself, he will never delight in that where she is concerned, but in her attempts to alleviate the self induced hurt. She is willing and eager to turn to him now. The young woman leans heavily on her knees, watching him carefully. The blue eyes more curious than anything else, waiting to hear his answer.

"Why does anything feel like anything? Personal experience, guilt, maybe," he shrugs, leaning easily against the back of the couch. The air is comfortably claustrophobic, the world outside silent, giving the illusion the night is only theirs. It's only them (as it always will be, should be). "I prefer to think it's martyrdom. You get so used to putting a bullet in someone's head that it feels empty playing by the rules, doesn't it?"

"That isn't it." But her tone lacks some of its typical conviction. "It'll be months before we can arrange a trial. I know better than to think something _won't_ have gone wrong by then. A disappeared witness, misplaced evidence…"

"And you believe you can control these things, Lizzie? I fail to see if this is simple idealism. Or narcissism."

To her credit, she simply ignores him, watching the empty street through bay windows. One of the lights flickers and dies, leaving the blackness pressing in on the glass. Claustrophobic, but not uncomfortable. Elizabeth tips her head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly as she searches for the appropriate words.

"At the end of the day…" she sighs, glancing at her feet, the more even ground preferable to looking at him. It's a tell, he supposes, this inability to face down her concerns. The rest of her playmates she can handle admirably enough but him...no, she prefers not to look. Not when they're like this. When all that armor is stripped away leaving her so despicably vulnerable. The young woman shrugs, wringing her hands, "I have to believe this was worth something. I need to know what I am _doing_ is worth _something_."

"A noble if naive approach to life. What we do so infrequently matters, Lizzie. People live, people die, often with no one noticing at all. It's arrogant to think you are somehow _more_ than they are."

"Then what's the point?"

Red chuckles. _He_ has the confidence to watch her in that moment, reveling in those wide eyes. They really are beautiful eyes and he'll tell her this one day, when she isn't staring at him with that...doe eyed innocence the world has somehow failed to beat out of her. A blessing or an oversight, he has yet to determine which. What he does know is only months before she'd have been staring at him with tears in those eyes, her heart bleeding all over his floor, blubbering about not knowing why she came. There is only steel and certainty now, navigating this once unfamiliar terrain with aplomb. Challenging him to tell her precisely _why_ she is wrong, _exactly _why. No more cryptic suggestions, no more mind games.

He smiles, leaning forward to pour them both a drink. Scotch, this time, a proper drink and not whatever moonshine he offered previously. She's graduated to something a little more refined. Something inside him swells with pride when she accepts without a second thought, the tips of her fingers brushing his briefly as he hands off the glass. "I don't pretend to know, Lizzie. Or I'm not arrogant enough to guess, take your pick."

"Surprising."

"I'd have thought you'd have learned by now. I'm positively full of those."

The agent hums, swirling the liquid in her drink experimentally, watching the dim light break through the amber colors, "We'll just have to muddle through then." She doesn't catch the easy slip, even if he does, natural as anything she's ever spoken, real conviction coloring the words. She says 'we' without stumbling, without even the briefest flashing of understanding. Elizabeth purses her lips, glancing down at her drink a final time before bringing it to her lips.

He chuckles again, "That is, I'm afraid, the best anyone can do."

All that steel when she nods, finishing her drink and setting the empty glass on the table between them. She hesitates briefly, her hand stopped halfway in the air before reaching for the bottle. She pours herself another drink before leaning back, nearly allowing herself to relax against the couch cushions.

If she catches his smirk she doesn't comment. He tops off his own glass before returning to observing her. Looser now, her mind at ease, as she drags the tip of her finger around the rim of the glass. Yes, he imagines they will manage to muddle through.

More than that, they will thrive.


End file.
